ми REMORSE OF DE MOOR. I must rest here. My joints are shaken asunder. My tongue cleaves to my mouth. How glorious, how majestic, yonder setting sun! 'Tis thus the hero falls, 'tis thus he dies, in god-like majesty! When I was a boy, a mere child, it was my favorite thought, to live and die like that sun. 'Twas an idle thought, a boy's conceit. There was a time, there was a time, when I could not sleep, if I had forgotten my prayers! Oh that I were a child once more! That scene What a lovely evening! what a pleasing landscape! is noble! this world is beautiful! the earth is grand! But I am hideous in this world of beauty: a monster on this magnificent earth: the prodigal son! My innocence! Oh my innocence! All nature expands at the sweet breath of spring; but, oh, this paradise, this heaven, is a hell to me! All is happiness around me: all is the sweet spirit of peace: the world is one family: but its Father there above is not my father! I am an outcast! the prodigal son! the companion of murderers, of viperous Яends! bound down, enchained to guilt and horror! Oh! that I could return once more to peace and innocence! that I were once more an infant! that I were born a beggar! the meanest kind! a peasant of the field! I would toil, till the sweat of blood dropped from my brow, to purchase the luxury of one sound sleep, the rapture of a single tear! There was a time when I could weep with ease. Oh, days of bliss! Oh, mansion of my fathers! Scenes of my infant years, enjoyed by fond enthusiasm! Will you no more return? No more exhale your sweets to cool this burning bosom? Oh, never, never shall they return! No more refresh this bosom with the breath of peace! They are gone! gone forever! J. C. F. VON SCHILLER. WHEN THE KYE COME HAME Come, all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen! I'll tell ye o' a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye come hame, When the kye come hame, When the kye come hame,— 'Tis not beneath the burgonet, There the blackbird bigs his nest, And on the tapmost bough THE EDITOR.. The editor sat in his easy chair, "Are you the ran What edits the paper? I've come to tan Your hide for that caper. You called me a villain; you called me a rogue; A way of speaking, sir, too much in vogue With you fellows that handle the printing press. Defend yourself, sir! I demand a redress." The editor quailed, But just at the moment his courage gave way, His genius stepped in, and gained him the day. "I'm not the person you seek," he said; "If you want redress, go straight to the head. He's not far off, and will settle affairs, I have n't a doubt. I'll call him up stairs." Then down he went As if he were sent, A fire, or something worse to prevent. A scamp well known to annals of fame, At the foot of the stair, Or near it somewhere, The monster met him, demanding redress, Stranger," said he, "Be not too free In applying abusive words to me; Up stairs is the person you wish to see." A terrible tussle, A terrible bustle, They make, as round the room they wrestle; |